by His Ransom
Richard bit his lip and said nothing. He knew he stood awkwardly because of his leg and the ship was not the place for vanity. He had been very ill for the last few months and it probably showed.
For the first time he examined the other men on board carefully. Most of them were tanned and looked strong. Somehow they had managed to keep their hair neat and their faces shaved during the voyage. His unkempt looks alone would draw the attention of the townspeople. For the first time in his life his looks were not causing murmurs of approval. It occurred to him that he might not recover his good looks or his health. He had no idea what kind of treatment he could expect in England and the last few weeks had shown him that he could do nothing about whatever might be done to him. Thomas had treated him well, but he could not tell whether Thomas acted under his own guidance or whether he followed the duke’s orders. Either way, he would have a new gaoler soon and he would be here for a long time. It would be to his advantage to learn as much as he could about this place and its people, so he concentrated on what was happening and what was being said.
Richard watched as one of the soldiers, Martin he thought the name was, carefully led a horse down onto the pier, ignoring the greetings from the townspeople. Even the horse seemed to have had a better voyage than Richard. He pranced off the ship and onto the jetty, with no apparent change in his stride. “Where’s he going?” Richard asked Thomas, as Martin mounted his horse and spurred it away from the river and the castle.
Thomas looked where Richard pointed, then said curtly, “He’s a messenger from the duke. Gone to London.”
Now Richard understood. The duke had sent reports to the king from Gascony. It was not his concern. The reports would contain more details of the Prince of Wales’ victory over King Jean. Richard had thought about it as much as he could bear and now he wanted to think about other things. He was not in England because things had gone well for France at Poitiers. He had tried to leave the bitterness behind at Bordeaux, but his leg was a constant reminder of what the English had done to him.
Now it had started to rain, and Richard pulled his cloak about him, hoping that he would not get too wet on his way up the hill. Doubtless the castle would be damp and he did not want to start life there wet through; he would never get dry again.
By the time he and Thomas left the ship his leg had started to ache from standing for so long on the deck. He was limping so badly as they started up the hill that Thomas pulled him up behind him on his horse which gave Richard almost as much pain as walking. “I would not have Lady Rosamunde report to her father that I mistreated you,” Thomas muttered as Richard fought to find his balance on the horse made skittish by the voyage from Gascony.
“Do I look that bad, then?” asked Richard with a laugh.
“And smell worse.” Thomas wrinkled his nose.
Richard was crestfallen. He had expected to impress these barbarians with his looks and size and manners, but it seemed he was to make an impression of a different kind.
“I beg your pardon, I had no idea.” He did not add that Thomas himself was not exactly pleasing to be near.
“Don’t worry. You won’t get close enough to Lady Rosamunde for her to notice. It is time for us to remember that you are the duke’s prisoner and not his guest.”
Richard had never forgotten and was surprised to learn that Thomas had. The man had certainly been friendly towards him and did not seem to bear him any ill-will for what had passed between their two kings and their armies.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?” Thomas seemed genuinely puzzled.
“A lesser man would have remembered every moment that I was his prisoner.”
“It is not that I forgot,” said Thomas cheerfully, “It is simply that you suffered enough without me reminding you.”
“Nonetheless, you have been kind to me and I will not forget it.”
“You behaved honourably towards the duke; I see no reason not to behave in the same way towards you.”
Richard felt his chest tighten. Yes, he had behaved honourably where there had been dishonour and he would pay the greatest price for what he had done. There would be no ransom for him and he would never see the blue of the Mediterranean again. He would remain in this grey place in the cold and damp for the rest of his days. It would have been far better if he had fallen at Poitiers in defence of his king.
Chapter Two
Ever since the ship had been sighted early that afternoon Rosamunde had been restless. It was not reasonable to expect that her father or Simon would be on the ship, since it was unaccompanied. Nonetheless she hoped against hope that they would be. Even if they were not, it would be the first real news that they had had in months from France. There had been stories of a big battle, but Rosamunde did not believe them. How could the king of France have been taken prisoner? How could a small English army that had set out only to make a nuisance of itself have defeated the whole mighty French army? No, the truth must be something else and today she would find out. She did not really care about battles as long as her father and Simon were safe - and Henry, she reminded herself. Her younger brother was seldom far from her thoughts, but today it was her father and Simon who occupied her mind to the exclusion of all else.
She wondered if she would know Simon. He would be different. A year of killing men and destroying property would have changed him. He had always been gentle and courteous with her, but she knew that war was his business and he had trained all his life for battle. Now he was putting all his training to use and she hoped that it would be enough. She had expressed her fears for his safety and he had been considerate enough not to laugh, but had explained to her how thorough his training had been. She had not bothered to point out that in twenty years of war the French had also been training hard. They, too, had some skill at war and English victories had been few since Crécy.
When Simon returned she would leave the sanctuary that her father’s castle had become and take her proper place in the world as his wife. Although she was happy here, she was only the chatelaine until her father should marry again or Henry take his own wife. But before either of those events happened she would be married to Simon and go with him to their own home. They would raise their own family. She felt her cheeks warm at the thought. When Simon had gone with her father to fight the French she had had little idea of what would be required of her as a wife, but the absence of most of the men had set the women’s tongues free and she had heard much that delighted her and as much that had scared her.
Above all she had realised in his absence that she truly loved Simon. Theirs had not been a love match. Although her father had allowed her the final choice, they had been intended for one another from childhood. After their betrothal Simon had decided to get to know his wife and had spent much time at the castle with her. They had talked together and danced and sung. She had read to him and made a tunic and standard for him. She had accompanied him on hunts and received the hart’s slot from him. Once, while everyone else was taking a bite to eat during a rest from the hunt, he had taken her aside into a stand of trees and kissed her. He had been as inexperienced as she and they had laughed. She promised herself that it would be different when he returned. She was no more experienced and hoped that he was not, but she had learned from the other women what she must do and she was ready. She knew that he would come to her even before he returned to his father and he might be on the ship that was sailing so agonisingly slowly up the river. It had seemed to her when he left that he had also loved her. They were well matched and it would be a happy marriage.
He had sent her two letters in the last year when her father had sent back some of the prize money he had taken. They had told her nothing about his life in France, but spoken only of their future together and she had wondered what was really occupying his mind. He had trained all his life to fight and kill, so the fighting surely could not trouble him. As a boy he, like Rosamunde, had seen whole communities on his father’s propert
y wiped out by the Big Death. No, he was no stranger to death and devastation. She feared, instead, that he had come to regret their betrothal, but it seemed unlikely. Her dowry was small enough, but she was the daughter of a duke and the marriage would advance him a great deal.
From the moment the ship had been sighted the castle was in turmoil. At first Rosamunde tried to impose her own sense of calm, but gave up in favour of some semblance of order. Servants were despatched to clean and cook and to make beds ready. Ladies, eager for news of their husbands, refused to sit and sew, but found excuses to pass by windows that overlooked the river. Rosamunde was tempted, but looking would not make the ship arrive any sooner.
When she had been told that the ship had docked she went into the hall to be ready to greet whoever might arrive. She was stretched to breaking point with anticipation.
She was attended by her women and Sir Guy, the young knight her father had left in charge of the castle’s defences. All were eager to see who might arrive.
Two men entered the hall and bowed low. There was a sigh of relief behind her and Rosamunde saw Thomas find his wife’s face in the group of women with a smile.
The two men walked towards her, the stranger limping badly. They were both very wet from the rain and very much alone. Rosamunde knew she would not be seeing her father or her husband today. She tried not to let the disappointment show on her face. She dared not let herself think about why they had not returned with Thomas.
“Sir Thomas, I am happy to see you safely returned from France.”
“I am very happy to be home, my lady.” He turned towards the stranger and Rosamunde took a closer look at him. He was tall, much taller than Sir Thomas. His dark hair fell heavily onto his shoulders and his face was hidden by a beard. Both hair and beard were untidy. His broad shoulders and narrow waist told her that he was a knight and his pallor indicated that he had not had a good trip from France. His whole body looked sick and tired. It was only in his eyes that she saw any spark of life. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were wary.
“This is Sir Richard de Charimaux, your father’s prisoner.” Thomas had pronounced the name in the French way, but when Rosamunde repeated it she said it in the English way.
“Sir Richard, you are welcome. I assume you are here because there is no ransom for you.” She could not hold back the sigh that escaped her lips. Her father would not have sent him here if there had been any hope of a ransom. This must be some penniless noble or a third or fourth son. His family would not, or could not ransom him and he had no wealth of his own. Twenty years of war had depleted her father’s fortune and the Big Death had almost destroyed what was left. Simon had pinned their hopes on capturing a French noble whose ransom would keep them for the rest of their lives. The money her father had sent back had already been spent, as he had directed, on repairs to the castle. Simon had made little from the war as yet. But she doubted that a war that had gone on for twenty years would end with one battle, however badly it had gone for the French. He probably had plenty of time to make their fortune.
Richard smiled without humour. “You are correct, Lady Rosamunde.” He was older than she had thought at first, perhaps thirty. His hair and beard were untouched by grey and she had assumed that he was not much older than her own seventeen years.
She noted that it was a pleasant voice, pitched low and catching the listener’s attention. She thought that he was probably an attractive man when he was well-fed and not recovering from a journey that had obviously not agreed with him. It amused her to think that the French of whom they were all so afraid could not even cross the British Sea without being ill. She and her brother, Henry, had gained their sea legs as children and she had always assumed that the mighty French were also hardened sailors. She succeeded in keeping the smile that threatened from her face; she still did not know why her father and Henry and Simon were not here.
“So, my father expects me to get some value from you here.” She did not want to be bothered with this man. She wanted to see Simon. She wanted her father and Henry. A prisoner was of no interest to her. He was a cripple and he did not speak good English. She had to speak slowly to be sure that he understood her and his responses were hesitant. She could not imagine what he might do to work off his ransom.
“I believe it to be so.” Richard inclined his head and Rosamunde knew that he was mocking her. What value was there to be had from a crippled knight?
“Do you read and write?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“English?”
Richard frowned and so did Rosamunde. He shook his head and she sighed again. A crippled knight who could not read or write and would not be ransomed had no value. He would cost them more than they could make from him. Why, then, had her father sent him to her? She looked at Thomas, who cleared his throat loudly.
“Your father sent letters.”
At last. Now she would know what her father intended her to do and why he had not returned.
Rosamunde motioned him forward and he handed her a waterproofed pouch. She smiled, but Thomas did not return it. Now she began to worry about what she would read in the letters. Perhaps her father was wounded, yet he had lived when Thomas had left Bordeaux. He smiled too much for a man who had lost his lord. Henry, then, surely Henry was dead. She was overcome by a sense of dread and she knew, when Thomas caught her arm, that she had almost swooned away. She shook herself. She had run her father’s estates and castle alone for more than a year; she was no child to be taken so by fear.
The pouch contained many letters. The ones sealed with her father’s seal were for her. Many were for the women, letters from their husbands or sons. Rosamunde pulled out the one that was on top of the pile. She broke the seal and read the beginning of the letter.
“My dearest daughter, it is with great sadness that I must tell you that your betrothed husband, Simon de Purlieu is dead…”
Rosamunde could read no more. Her eyes filled with tears and her hands began to shake. Thomas took the letter from her and Margaret came to stand beside her, putting an arm around her waist.
Simon was dead. Her bright and laughing husband was no more and he had taken her hopes and dreams for the future with him. Rosamunde did not allow the tears to fall and instead looked at Sir Thomas. His face was full of sympathy. She was aware once more of Margaret at her side. She wanted nothing more than to run from the room and find somewhere to cry. She handed the pouch back to Thomas. “Please make sure that these are distributed correctly. And send a messenger to Sir Simon’s father in the morning.”
Thomas put his hand on the bag, but she hesitated. “I trust there is no further bad news from France.” She gripped Margaret’s hand, afraid that she had been wrong and that her father and Henry were dead.
“No,” said Thomas quickly. “Your father and Henry are well. They could not leave immediately, there was so much to be done.”
”How many men did we lose?” she asked quietly, remembering her duties as her father’s daughter.
“Two from here. Twenty in all from your father’s properties.” He stepped closer so that no one could overhear him say their names to her. One of them was an archer from the town and Rosamunde knew that it would fall to her to tell the family, for there would be no letter for them from her father. The other widow was a girl, the daughter of a friend of her father’s who had died in the Big Death. She and her husband had been married shortly before he had set off for France and their four-month old baby now lay asleep upstairs. Rosamunde let go of the bag. “Come, Margaret,” she said, “We have work to do,” and putting her own grief to one side for the moment, Rosamunde set off to bring what comfort she could to her father’s people.
Richard stared after the departing women. He did not know what he had expected, but it had not been this. He had not thought that they might be bringing bad news from France, but if Lady Rosamunde’s father and brother were well, it must surely be the death of her husband that she grieved so quietly.
She was a striking woman, taller than all of the other women and a few of the men clustered around her in the hall. He had been impressed by her calm when she had received the bad news. She had not screamed or fainted, but stood quietly, the only signs of her distress a whitening of her knuckles as she clutched the parchment more tightly and the sudden brightness in her eyes that was quickly blinked away. She was not a woman whose feelings would be shown in public he guessed. She had needed the support of her friend, but she had not given in to her grief. She was a strong woman; she must be for she had looked after the estate for a year in her father’s stead.
She was beautiful, with a low, quiet voice and he knew that many men would want her for her looks alone. She was slender with a well-proportioned body. For most men her height must detract from her beauty, but Richard thought it added to it. He recognised that this was because he was tall himself. Even standing awkwardly to compensate for his leg he was taller than every man in this hall.
Lady Rosamunde dressed demurely, so her neck and wrists were hidden, but her hands were well-cared for. Her mouth was full and her nose straight with a becoming turn at the end. Her eyes were a deep blue that betrayed her Norman descent. Her hair was hidden under her modest veil, but if her colouring were any indication, it would be a deep chestnut. When she was happy no man would be able to look anywhere else, for she must draw all eyes to her.
But beauty was meaningless to Richard. It was deceptive and it could turn men into fools. Richard had been a fool once because of a beautiful woman, but now he was cured and he would not go that way again.
He would not be trapped and caught by Rosamunde, nor by any of her ladies. He already knew they could not have what he was looking for; they were English.
He felt the women’s eyes on him and for once he did not have to hide his displeasure. He was a prisoner here and no one would expect him to look happy about it.